


the boy on fire

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, very brief Catching Fire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2013-12-08
Packaged: 2018-01-04 01:03:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I never wanted this,” Grantaire says again, tilting his head to stare down at his knees. He doesn’t need to see it to know that there’s a flash of disappointment in Enjolras’s eyes.</p>
<p>“Too bad. You’re the mockingjay, apparently, and we can’t do it without you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the boy on fire

Grantaire can’t remember what a proper night’s sleep feels like anymore. He wants to sleep, knows he needs his rest for what’s up ahead tomorrow, but he’s restless, tossing and turning and unable to get comfortable even on one of the Capitol’s most luxurious mattresses. He thinks he might snatch a few minutes of it, every now and then, before he sees them—the people he killed the last time around and the ones he might have to kill tomorrow. The ones who aren’t even dead yet are already haunting him.

He sits up in bed and leans over his knees, trying to catch his breath.

When he hears what must be Eponine opening the door to his room to check on him, or to crawl into bed with him and press her cold feet against his calves for comfort, he keeps his face in his hands, pressing his palms against his closed eyelids until his eyes burn and he can see colors swirling.

“I never wanted this. Why can’t they just leave us alone?” His voice is thick, and he realizes he might be about to cry. He hasn’t cried, not yet, not when his name was drawn the first time and not anytime after. If he hadn’t been able to save Eponine, with that little wretched stunt with the poison berries, he might’ve cried, then. But the last thing he wants is to go back there, back into the Games, and that might be his undoing. And then he hears, in an icy voice that is not Eponine’s:

“Fuck them. Fuck Panem, and fuck Snow.”

Grantaire looks up at Enjolras, illuminated in his doorway. Even in pajama bottoms, leaning against the doorframe, he looks like a warrior, his posture rigid and his chin raised in challenge, and Grantaire wonders how he’s meant to kill him, of all people.

(He won’t kill him, can’t. Maybe for Eponine’s sake but—he’d prefer to die for him.)

Enjolras comes inside, shuts the door behind him. He keeps talking, voice warming from cold to hot with passion.

“They made a mistake, having us all back here for the Quarter Quell. We aren’t some stupid kids anymore—we’re tired of being their pawns and we aren’t afraid to show them that. Together, all of us—” He’s glaring at Grantaire. “—We can do it.”

“I never wanted this,” Grantaire says again, tilting his head to stare down at his knees. He doesn’t need to see it to know that there’s a flash of disappointment in Enjolras’s eyes.

“Too bad. You’re the mockingjay, apparently, and we can’t do it without you.”

His tone is dismissive—what Grantaire wants doesn’t matter, has never mattered, and why should it start mattering now when overthrowing the Capitol is at stake. He’s not an ideal symbol for the revolution, certainly—he’s ugly and broken and can’t speak for shit in front of massive crowds—but he’s the one that the people of Panem have chosen, apparently.

Grantaire hears it before he feels it—ridiculous laughter bubbling up inside his chest. That he of all people should be the one they’re counting on—

There’s a hand in his hair, then, long fingers brushing through it gently. His head shoots up, eyes narrowed at Enjolras. “What are you doing?”

“Glitter stuck in your hair from your stupid costume from earlier,” Enjolras says, almost petulantly, and keeps running his hand through Grantaire’s curls. “It’s been bothering me.”

He’s not lying. Grantaire watches red bits of glitter float down to his sheets. He wants to laugh again, laugh because Enjolras of all people thinks he needs to come up with a suitable excuse to  _touch_  him on the night before they’re going to be released into a glorified arena and possibly forced to slaughter one another. Definitely forced to slaughter one another, if the Capital has their way.

Grantaire leans his head into Enjolras’s touch, feels his hand slip down to cup his face, slide a thumb along his cheekbone.

“You know who you can trust once we’re in, right?” Enjolras asks him.

“I won’t let anyone die for me.”

“Don’t be stupid. We need you.”

(It’s not  _I need you_ , but Grantaire thinks it’s probably better than nothing.)


End file.
